Originally posted by: CitizenKain
Goes to show the BW guys that were strung up from the bridge deserved it.
Just to give you an idea of who you are maligning -
Scott Helvenston
By all accounts, Scott Helvenston, who joined Blackwater in March, 2004, was well prepared for security work. He had been a Navy SEAL instructor and was a world class athlete.
People who knew Scott Helvenston -- "The Helv" to close friends -- struggle to explain how strong he was, physically and mentally. They point to his joining the SEALs when he was just 17. They bring up the time when he represented the Navy in a world military pentathlon championship. He won, perhaps the closest thing to being named the best military athlete on the planet.
Or they mention the time his parachute malfunctioned. He broke both wrists and both ankles, but stood and tried to walk away.
"It just seemed like he always had to prove himself," said his mother, Kathryn Helvenston-Wettengel. "I don't know if he did that, or the world put it on him."
Helvenston had been not just a SEAL but an instructor, teaching underwater techniques and advanced parachuting -- SEAL stands for the attack routes of sea, air and land. He had parlayed his 12 years with the commando unit into acting and consulting on Hollywood movies, selling a line of fitness videos and working as a fitness trainer and climbing guide.
Helvenston's father committed suicide when he was young, and he had vowed to do better by his own son and daughter, who were 14 and 12. But he had recently divorced, and he needed money.
'Scotty Bod' Grows Up
A Colleague Pays Tribute
Jerry Zovko
A 6'3" former Army Ranger, he was born in Cleveland, joined the military in 1991 and had a reputation for being independent, with a knack for getting what he wanted. A Croatian-American, he got himself assigned to Bosnia in 1995 to help keep the peace. In 1997, after being thwarted in joining the Green Berets, he left the army and went to work as a security contractor for DynCorp in Qatar and Dubai, where he learned Arabic. In the summer of 2003, he signed on with Vinnell to help train the new Iraqi army, telling his family it was important work because the Iraqis needed the chance to take charge of their own country. Three months later, he joined Blackwater Security Consulting.
Zovko was so outgoing that it seemed as though he knew every westerner in Baghdad. He spoke good Arabic -- and several other languages -- and chatted often with the staff in the small hotel where he lived.
A Letter From A Colleague
A quiet driven man
Wesley Batalona
A native of Hawaii, Batalona was career Army and a former Ranger sergeant with a reputation for being tough. Like the others, his motive for signing on for security work in Iraq was mixed: a yearning for some adventure, a bit of self-challenge, and the money. He wanted to help out his father who was facing foreclosure on his house.
Batalona joined the Army in 1974 and took part in the 1989 invasion of Panama, the first Gulf War and the 1993 humanitarian mission to Somalia. After 20 years he retired and ended up taking a hotel night security work. But he yearned to do more and didn't hesitate when he learned through contacts with other former soldiers about security work in Iraq.
Batalona was known for quietly sizing up people, then using pranks to befriend them. He had a soft spot for kids, perhaps because as one of the youngest in a pack of nine, he had sometimes been overlooked. He jokingly called Zovko his son.
Army builds a future
Michael Teague
Teague, 38, of Clarksville, Tenn., was a burly softball player and motorcycle enthusiast. He had left a low-paying security guard job in Tennessee. He was a decorated 12-year Army veteran who had served in Afghanistan, Panama and Grenada and with a Special Operations helicopter unit nicknamed "Night Stalkers."
Here's an account of the mission distilled from the reports published by The News and Observer (North Carolina):
Zovko, Batalona, Teague and Helvenston had signed short-term contracts with Prince's company, earning about $600 a day.
Their job was to escort food convoys and workers for a European food service company called ESS to a U.S. military base west of Fallujah, a city of 280,000 about 35 miles west of Baghdad. In a way, the contractors were guarding nothing: The mission that day was to pick up kitchen equipment the company needed elsewhere, so the trucks were empty.
The high-paying job carried high risks. Fallujah was known as the most dangerous place in Iraq for westerners, and the miles of dusty flatpan around the city were little safer. It was the heart of the Sunni Triangle, and a place where even the Marines who were supposed to control the area feared to venture without at least a couple dozen heavily armed troops.
Fallujah was considered so dangerous that the North Carolina-based 82nd Airborne Division, which had turned over the area to the Marines only a few days earlier, had a rule: No one could conduct a patrol even in the countryside -- let alone Fallujah itself -- without at least three vehicles packed with troops. There were often eight or more soldiers in each, their guns covering every angle.
"When you initially went into town, everything seemed calm and the people friendly, but once you were there for 45 minutes or an hour, you'd start to get this eerie feeling, and next thing you know, you might start getting RPGs," or rocket-propelled grenades, said Staff Sgt. Aaron Sullivan of the 82nd.
The Blackwater men knew about all this, in part because of the warning Zovko got along with the grenades. But they were veterans of elite military units. Teague and Batalona were combat veterans.
Nonetheless, the men from Blackwater were on their own March 31 as they tried to get to the other side of Fallujah. For every six U.S. soldiers in Iraq, there was one contractor, and they might get paid 10 times the wages of soldiers doing similar work. But they had no air support to call on, no medevac helicopters and no quick reinforcements. They had no formal access to military intelligence.
At 3 p.m. on March 30, 2004, a Blackwater team of four men in two Mitsubishi Pajeros set out from Camp Taji, escorting three empty flatbed trucks. Each vehicle was unarmored, except for a metal plate attached to the rear seat. Each vehicle was short one man, a rear gunner, and lacked proper maps and directions.
The convoy went to Camp Fallujah, on the mistaken belief that was their destination. Once at the camp, just east of Fallujah, the Blackwater men found no one from ESS, the European food company for whom they provided security.
The convoy then set out for Camp Ridgeway, west of Fallujah, but was stopped at a military checkpoint. It returned to Camp Fallujah for the night, where contractors working for Kellogg, Brown and Root gave the Blackwater men multiple warnings to avoid Fallujah.
The next morning, the convoy set out, armed with mini M-4 rifles and semiautomatic pistols. The drivers of the flatbed trucks, who survived the ambush, said the convoy was waved through a checkpoint manned by the Iraqi Civil Defense Corps.
Blackwater has said the ICDC led the convoy into the ambush. The drivers of the flatbed trucks, however, told investigators that there was no evidence that the ICDC participated.
When the convoy entered Fallujah, Iraqi police stopped the convoy and spoke with the occupants of the lead vehicle, Wesley Batalona and Jerry Zovko, who spoke Arabic. A few blocks down the road, traffic stopped in the four-lane road. The lead Blackwater vehicle was in the left lane, followed by two trucks. The third truck was in the right lane, followed by Scott Helvenston and Michael Teague.
While the convoy was stopped in traffic, four or five boys approached the lead Blackwater vehicle. The men rolled their windows down and Zovko spoke briefly with the boys, who walked to a large group of people and spoke to two men. After several minutes, insurgents bearing AK-47s attacked the rear vehicle, killing Teague and Helvenston. The lead vehicle tried to make a U-turn but was blocked by oncoming traffic. At least five insurgents then attacked the vehicle, killing Batalona and Zovko. One insurgent carried a video camera, which captured images of Batalona slumped toward Zovko, who leaned back in his seat, his face shattered.
The three truck drivers drove on. To escape, they had to do a U-turn and pass by the ambush, where they saw that a crowd, chanting and yelling, had set the vehicles on fire. The insurgents apparently didn't realize the trucks were part of the convoy.
The scene in Fallujah was unforgettable shortly thereafter: four Americans shot, their bodies defiled, two of them hung from a bridge.
A crowd began to collect in the open area on the south side of the road. Some brought out jugs of fuel, doused the vehicles, then set them afire. The mob grew to more than 300 people.
Arab journalists arrived within minutes, making videotapes and photographs that shortly would be sent around the world.
When the flames on the SUVs died, people pulled out the bodies, playing to the cameras, and set the bodies on fire, too. A man beat a blackened torso with a pipe; others used shovels. Several used the soles of their shoes, a grave insult in the Arab world. Another tied a brick to one charred leg and flung it up, where it caught on a power line, the brick on one side counterbalancing the leg.
"Fallujah is the graveyard of Americans," they chanted. "We sacrifice our blood and souls for Islam."
Young men danced atop the burned trucks.
A boy stamped on a burned head. "Where is Bush?" the boy yelled. "Let him come here and see this!"
Two of the bodies were dragged through the streets behind a car, eventually to a green-painted bridge over the Euphrates, where they were lashed to the metal frame.
"This is what these spies deserve," Salam Aldulayme, a 28-year-old Fallujah resident, told the journalists. Across the river, several Iraqi security officers stood around outside an ICDC headquarters. Someone asked why they didn't do something. The other side of the river isn't our jurisdiction, they replied. We aren't responsible.
The mob had tired of thrashing the two scorched torsos. The body on the south side of the skeletal steel bridge was tied to the girders with electrical cord about five feet above the ground, dismembered and decapitated. The second body hung on the other side of the roadway, feet up, its limbs slack, its head little more than a blackened skull. A few blocks away, another crowd was beating two more burned bodies.
On the bridge, an Arab reporter would raise a camera and a man or boy would climb to pose beside a corpse. Some in the crowd would turn and flash a "V" for victory with their fingers.
Beneath the bridge, the patches of tall reeds along the Euphrates were motionless in the still midmorning air of March 31. On the far side, a water buffalo grazed at the river's edge. U.S.-trained Iraqi security troops loitered around their headquarters and ignored the crowd.
The four dead men were Americans, armed civilians working for a private contractor.
The Marines, in charge of the area, hadn't known the four were traveling that day into the cauldron of Fallujah. They wouldn't risk a riot by trying to stop the macabre show. Finding the killers later might be their problem, but for now, the corpses would just have to stay there.
Later that day, the radio played oldies inside the Zovko family's body shop in a gritty corner of Cleveland. The music stopped for news: four U.S. contractors had been killed in some city in Iraq.
Danica Zovko, doing the shop's accounts, thought of another ugly televised scene a decade earlier. She sent two e-mail messages to her son Jerry, in Iraq:
"They're killing people in Iraq just like Somalia."
"... remember tomorrow is April Fools Day. Please be careful ..."
It didn't occur to Danica Zovko, or the families of the other men, that those torn, scorched bodies -- the "contractors" -- could be their kin. They knew little, just that Jerko "Jerry" Zovko, Wesley Batalona, Michael Teague and Stephen "Scott" Helvenston were in Iraq. In the families' eyes, they were soldiers, not contractors.
So in Ohio, Tennessee, Florida, California and, as the sun climbed, on Hawaii's Big Island, the families heard the reports. They went on with their normal business.
In early July, 2004 someone sent a copy of a videotape to Michael Ware, a Time magazine reporter who had spent time with insurgents in Fallujah.
The Islamic terrorists had turned the ambush into a recruiting tool -- a slick propaganda film featuring a soundtrack, a narrator and Arabic titles that fade out by flying off the screen like birds.
The tape opens with a hooded man giving details of the attack, and then there are the scenes filmed seconds after the shooting. Then, snippets from other attacks are shown, including a night ambush apparently against U.S. troops, the aftermath of an attack on a convoy transporting armored vehicles by truck, and a roadside bomb erupting as a U.S. military Humvee passes.
It's unclear whether the four men ever got off a shot in return.
Batalona, wearing sunglasses and a shoulder holster, slumped to his right, almost into his friend Zovko's lap. Bullets had torn through the back of his brightly colored shirt. Blood ran from his white hair.
Zovko wore body armor over a blue long-sleeved T-shirt, but it didn't help. His head was thrown back and he faced straight up, mouth agape. The right side of his face was torn open.
As the Blackwater segment fades to black, voices chant:
"Kick him out
"Make him flee
"Make life tight on him
"These are the brothers of the pig and the monkey
"Suppress them."
In the days after the Fallujah killings, the scenes of the mob abusing the contractors' bodies drew worldwide outrage. For many, it was an introduction to the growing role of private military contractors.
The Bridge - The News Observer